In 2020, I lost the art of making small talk. On phone call after phone call, someone would ask, how are you? Or, what’s new? Every time, I would pause because I still hadn’t figured out what to say. I walked the dog. I worked from my spare bedroom. I read a book. I baked a loaf of bread. I practiced playing piano.
My world shrank considerably last year — I did everything from home. And now, here we are in 2021, looking back and looking forward. Typically, end-of-year reflection is a cathartic exercise for me, but this time I struggled. I learned much in 2020, but I also felt creatively empty, too exhausted by grief and anxiety to do much or write much.
I can’t seem to zoom out for insight on this year, so instead let’s zoom in. I spent a lot of time hiking in 2020. It kept me sane during long months of social distancing, and it made me want to learn more about the landscape around me. On a whim, I picked up this book about trees and I learned many delightful facts, but this one jumped out at me in particular: Many deciduous trees form the buds of new leaves in summer or fall, and then they stay dormant on the tree until spring when they’re ready to unfurl. Now, I find myself marveling at the small, knobbly buds on the bare winter trees, wondering why I never noticed them before.
I’ve thought about those tiny tree buds a lot. I love knowing that when I’m gazing at stark trees in the depths of an icy January, the promise of spring is already there. More than that, I am beginning to appreciate the neccessity of becoming dormant. For the trees, shedding their leaves helps them survive the storms of winter.
Even at the height of summer, last year felt like a long winter. It was a year of slowing down, drawing in, and licking my wounds. I don’t know when that might change in 2021. although I trust that it will. So if I’ve been quiet lately, it’s because I’m leaning into the wisdom of the trees. It’s OK to embrace the bare, fallow periods in life. Grief is hard work. Rest is purposeful.
Beneath the quiet surface of my daily routines, the tectonic plates of my emotional and intellectual life shifted, I suspect, permanently. I’m still struggling to articulate what the hell happened and what it all means. That will take time. In the meantime, I know that all the hiking, piano playing, sleeping, crying and journaling serve a purpose because even when the buds are already there, you can’t rush the process of spring. You just have to wait.